


seven (and two)

by orphan_account



Category: Fairy Tail
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 17:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7278121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Seven years,” he echoes, but he looks at her like it was nine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seven (and two)

**Author's Note:**

> Modern AU.  
> Warning for past substance abuse and death (mentioned).

The first thing she sees are his eyes, distinctly copper, _distinct_ (she remembers how much she used to hope and pray that behind all of the haze, she would still see _him_ ). His eyes are clear, no longer cloudy, but her own vision blurs. She immediately pushes away the tears that threaten to spill, and the sob that wracks her throat. 

She wills herself to keep the distance between them; tells herself not to cross the four feet that separates them and into his arms.

“Seven years,” she manages to say, in a voice so distant she’s not even sure if it’s hers.

“Seven years,” he echoes, but he looks at her like it was nine.

It was.

He doesn’t say it but she understands; she always has (didn’t want to in those two years). 

In that moment, everything stops as though they are the only two people in the world. As though they’re not enclosed by the hasty crowds of the busy city streets. 

The hectic chatter around them drowns out, their surroundings blur into nothingness and it feels like their own world (and it’s a familiar feeling). 

His eyes flicker across her face like he’s trying to consolidate something, like he’s looking for something in her expression. Something that was there seven years ago. No, nine years ago.

She doesn’t know if he finds it. She doesn’t know if it’s even still there. But he takes a step forward and declares, his voice soft as though their world will shatter if he’s any louder, “I needed to see you.”

_Need_ , she thinks. _Not want_.

He quietly rolls up the cuffs of his shirt (she can’t recall the last time he wore something short-sleeved) and turns his arms, showing her his skin. She sees old scars—needle points and scratches—but nothing fresh, nothing bleeding the way her heart used to.

“I’m glad. I’m glad you’re doing better,” she breathes, because it was all _she_ ever needed from him for years (yet she still wanted so much more).

“How long?” she tentatively asks. “Have you been better? Getting better?”

“Since you left,” he answers, and it’s like a stab to her heart. “If you didn’t, I don’t know what would have happened—to me, to you.”

She closes her eyes and she feels like she’s eighteen and confused again, clinging to his passed out body and begging for him to wake up; cursing the syringe (it’s a tower to heaven, he once said), wishing he was _okay_. 

She hates it. Hates how the walls she spent years building came crashing down the instant she saw his face (his _eyes_ ), and the armours that forged themselves around her heart ( _him_ ) disintegrated in the burning acid rain of her tears.

Because she never needed to hide behind walls with him before, never needed to shield herself with armour.

“You ruined me,” her voice comes out a ghost of a whisper, more of a statement than an accusation, but he flinches all the same.

As though the ghost has been haunting him for years. 

Maybe it has.

“And I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry for hurting you, I’m sorry for those two years and these seven; I’m so sorry, Erza,” he pleads, and he sounds like the mess that she knows she is. He starts, and it all spills out, “I never, never wanted to hurt you. Or anyone else, for that matter. All those times at the parties, and the things I said, the things I did… And the things that I didn’t hear you say. Especially _that_ night.”

His breath hitches and she knows he’s still hurting about the evening that—God, it hurts her to even think his name— _he_ overdosed. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, because you shouldn’t. You probably hate me—”

Her teeth clench. “I don’t hate you. I never did.” _  
_

_Even though I should have, even though you hurt me, even though you_ ruined _me._

He opens his mouth again and she cuts him off, “No. Stop. Let me talk for a minute.

“I hated who you were, but I never hated _you_ , Jellal. You weren’t—you weren’t yourself during those times. I understood that much.” She inhales and tries to even her voice. “And I’m sorry too, for not realizing something was wrong, not noticing sooner, not stopping you before it got so bad. I should have helped you more. I _could_ have helped you.”

“It’s not your fault,” he murmurs.

“And I don’t blame you, either,” she reiterates and she tries not to think about how much she cried that night while they waited for the ambulance to arrive, or Jellal, _Jellal_ who stood there shell-shocked and unmoving as she held onto their unconscious friend. “Even for that night. You didn’t know. There wasn’t anything you could have done about it.”

“But if I never started in the first place,” he stresses, “he’d still be here.“

“We can’t change the past,” she mutters, and she tries to keep her eyes on his.

What she sees stings; burns her deep in her soul.

“I know. I _know_ ,” his voice shakes, “but I want to.”

She does too. Of course she does. She could have _helped_. Both of them. Everyone. Herself.

But she knows the only thing she can do now is look forward, continue onward. A what-if is a what-if is a what-if, after all. 

“What matters now, Jellal,” she tells him, because she knows he understands just as well as she does, “is that you’re better now.”

He blinks.

A short laugh leaves his lips, sardonic, and she persists, “Maybe we haven’t completely moved on and maybe we never will, but that’s fine, because we’re _trying_. There’s nothing else we can do. You already know that.”

She gestures vaguely to his entire being. “You’re already doing better.”

“I’m better now,” he repeats slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully, “but I’m still not good enough.”

The air stills. 

_Enough?_ she wants to press, but she doesn’t. She already knows, because he’s looking at her like she has stars in her eyes and he’s finally, _desperately_ following the distant light, finding his way back home. 

Countless figures—the everyday crowd of busy city-goers—fill her peripheral. 

_Don’t go, not again, you were never supposed to leave_ , _not like that_ , she wants to voice, but the words get caught in her throat as her gaze locks with his.

She doesn’t say it but he understands; he always has (always should have, never did in those two years).

She feels someone bump into her, mumbling an apology as they hurry past. 

He smiles at her, a crooked thing, and it’s different from what she remembers (sweet, sincere; twisted, forced). Melancholy, she pinpoints, and loathing. 

“I’m glad I could see you again, Erza.”

She nods her head once and smiles in return, because she knows her voice will betray her otherwise. And she knows that this is what he wants, _needs_ , and nothing she says will change his mind.

She hears the blaring of a car horn.

Then for a moment, she sees the boy from nine years ago in his eyes, distinct, and she realizes—

“Thank you,” he finishes, and he turns to leave.

She lets him.

It isn’t until he disappears into the sea of people—their world shattering into something they can rebuild—that she allows open the floodgate of her emotions: longing, fear, adoration, loneliness, _relief_. The tears she forced away earlier finally fall, because _you ruined me for anyone else_ (and he knows, because she ruined him just as much).

_Seven years_ , she thinks, _and two_.

And it’s (finally) okay.

**Author's Note:**

> orphaning right away b/c I just want to be... kind of anonymous.
> 
> anyway, this is definitely not one of my best works, but there are some parts I like and I know there are people who enjoyed this story too so I'll ... publish it ...
> 
> I just kind of fell in love with this AU and there's so much potential for more that I know I can't write, but it was enough for me to try and write this thing.
> 
> well anyway, thank you for reading.


End file.
